


Unrequited

by Langus



Category: Sense and Sensibility (1995)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:14:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23922922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langus/pseuds/Langus
Summary: A bittersweet little one-shot about the moments between Colonel Brandon finding Marianne and returning with her in the rain to the Palmers' estate. Written from Colonel Brandon's POV. First time dipping into the Sense & Sensibility fandom, but after a re-watch of the 1995 classic the other night I couldn't help myself. I hope you enjoy it!
Relationships: Colonel Brandon/Marianne Dashwood
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	Unrequited

He moved with driving purpose, his legs propelling him up the hill at a brisk pace he was not accustomed to. He quietly cursed the driving rain that made the grass on the hillside slick with mud. They would need to take care on the return journey so she didn’t twist an ankle or fall into any ill-placed puddles.

The thought crossed his mind so briefly he scarcely dwelt on it, but that was how it had been for him in the months since meeting Marianne Dashwood. He thought of her at the oddest of times, whilst riding his horse along the riverbank, or reeling in his latest catch. He thought of her during the long hours between dusk and dawn, as he ate dinner alone or read next to the fire. She was an ever present fixture in his mind and never more so than now, with his lungs and legs burning as he charged up that dreaded hill in search of her.

He considered what he might say to her once he found her, but what consoling words could he offer her tender broken heart? He doubted she would find comfort in the awkward phrases he might string together. He was there to ensure she returned to Cleveland estate safely and nothing more. He harboured no illusions about the veracity with which Marianne’s heart clung to Willoughby. Why should she look twice at a man like him, when there were others better suited to her passion and temperament?

It was silly to entertain such notions, he knew it well. But that didn’t stop his mind from wandering from time to time when he found a poignant passage of poetry that tugged at his heart, or a new book that fascinated him. She was the first person he thought to share those small joys with, hers always the first face that sprang to his mind.

What he wouldn’t give to have long days spent indulging their mutual passion for the arts. But his dear, sweet, Marianne, who was incapable of hiding her truest emotions, had made it clear she could naught but offer him polite friendship. And he could do little more than be content with that. After all, her happiness was paramount and if not achievable with him at the very least he hoped it was with someone worthy of her boundless spirit.

As his feet neared the crest of the hill, with Combe Magna looming dark and forlorn in the distance, he caught sight of her through the curtains of rain. She was seated atop the wet ground, staring fixedly at the estate of John Willoughby. It was a pitiful sight to see her heart so thoroughly broken by the carelessness of that scoundrel.

Though he was still yet several paces away he was close enough to hear her soft sobs. She stared through the torrents of rain at Willoughby’s estate, mourning the promise of a life she’d dreamed would be hers. It was cruel how Willoughby had treated her. Were he a younger man, a man with a hotter temperament, he should never have let such a betrayal go unchallenged. But he was not young, nor hot tempered. And when he gently called her name and she slowly looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes he forgot all thoughts of revenge.

“Are you hurt?” he asked as he took a knee next to her. His eyes quickly scanned her and he was relieved to find no obvious signs of injury.

She shook her head and then her gaze returned to Combe Magna’s darkened windows. “Only my heart,” she replied, her voice a bare whisper above the rolling thunder overhead.

His lips pressed into a frown as another streak of lightening flashed overhead. “I think it would be best if we got you out of this cold, Miss Marianne,” he informed her. “Are you able to walk?”

He held out his hands for her to take and patiently waited while she made peace with her choice to leave Combe Magna and Willoughby behind.

“If the weather improves, I shall bring you back tomorrow,” he bargained, desperate to say whatever he must to encourage her to return to the safety and dry shelter of the Palmers’ Cleveland estate. Her bare arms were rippled with goosebumps and she had already begun to shiver.

A loud clap of thunder shook the air around them and it was enough to rouse her. She looked up at him as if seeing him for the first time and said with a tone of surprise, “Oh…Colonel…How long have you been standing there?”

“Not long,” he assured her and gestured for her to take his hand so he could help her to her feet. “I am here to see you back safely. I promised your sister Elinor that I would return with you.”

“If I must,” she answered forlornly, and reached for his hand.

The first bare touch of her hand against his left him searching for his next breath. Her skin was alarmingly cold and pale, as if all the life had been drained out of it. He gripped her hand softly, marvelling at how it seamlessly fit into his, then gently pulled her to her feet.

She rose slowly, staggered, and reached for him to steady herself. Her hands landed on his chest, fingers lightly clinging to the lapels of his jacket. His brows rose with surprise and his hands ever so gently settled atop her shoulders to steady her. Violent shivers shook her small frame; he could feel how they rippled beneath her skin even through the thin covering of her dress. She swayed on her feet, offering only a moment’s warning before her knees buckled. His arms moved instinctively, tightening across her back to keep her from collapsing into the mud pooling at their feet.

“You are practically frozen,” he admonished with a shake of his head. “Come, I shall carry you.”

She nodded feebly, perhaps realizing her body lacked the will or strength to walk unassisted for the return journey. Determined to remove her hastily from harm’s way (where they most certainly were standing at the top of a hill amidst a tempest), he gently set her hand atop his shoulder and lifted her into his arms. She offered up no resistance as her shivering, rain-drenched form settled against him. With sure and carefully-placed steps, he carried her down the steep hill to Cleveland estate.

“I regret I did not think to bring a warm blanket,” he said as her head found purchase against his shoulder. Marianne said nothing. He could not be certain whether it was the near-constant shivers that shook her frame that made speech impossible, or if she simply had no wish to speak to him.

He moved quickly down the hillside, weaving his way around this puddle and that to avoid the worst of the mud. He focused on the path ahead instead of how seamlessly her head fit into the space beneath his chin, filling it in a way none other had in years. He was thankful for the small grove of trees that briefly spared them from the worst of the rain and wind. He pressed onward while doing his best to ignore the burning of the muscles in his arms and legs and the numbness that had overtaken his hands from the damp and the cold. Perhaps it was for the best that he could not feel the warmth of her thighs through the rain soaked material of her dress.

Cleveland came into view as they exited the grove which meant another two miles remained before they reached their destination. Thunder clapped loudly overhead and he hurried his pace. He would see her back safely if it killed him. The world could not lose a light as bright as the one which belonged to Marianne Dashwood. He knew his world certainly felt brighter any time he was lucky enough to be within her sphere of influence.

That was all his mind would permit him to focus on – the single-minded determination to see her back safely. It provided the sustaining energy that drove him that last long mile to the imposing front door of the Cleveland Estate.

She had gone limp and quiet in his arms by then, her body jostling with the movement of each step he took. The shivers had subsided one mile prior and far from easing his worries it filled his heart with dread. He knew what the cold could do to the body once it reached such a state. Time was of the essence now, but as each moment dragged by he felt her slipping further and further away.

“We are nearly there,” he promised and re-adjusted her weight across his arms. The knots between his shoulders had become pronounced, offering a fresh jolt of pain with each step. But there was naught he could do except move ever more determinedly towards the door. She offered up no words of protest or acknowledgement of his reassurances, but her fingers gripped tighter around the lapel of his tailcoat, slipping inside to keep warm in the space between the lining and his waistcoat.

“In no time at all you will be bundled up warm next to the fire with a hot cup of tea between your hands.”

The gravel of the garden path crunched beneath his boots and while his body breathed a sigh of relief his heart weighed heavy knowing he would never have cause to hold her so close again. He would deliver her to her family, whole and alive, and then slip hastily into the background where he could admire her beauty and talent at a distance. It was where he felt most comfortable, and the background was where he was destined to remain as far as Marianne Dashwood was concerned.

“We have arrived,” he assured her gently, then pushed open the door to a great commotion. It was such a dramatic shift from the solemn solitude of their walk, where only the sounds of the rain, their breaths, and the squelching ground beneath his feet had accompanied them. Now his ears were assaulted with shouts and cries, urgent demands he could scarcely process all at once. He resisted the urge to cling to her tight and instead offered her up into their waiting hands.

His voice emerged sounding weary as he simultaneously reassured everyone that she was unharmed while insisting she needed to be warmed immediately. How long had it been since she’d ceased shivering? How many miles ago? He could hardly recall now…

As he watched them take her away his feet stubbornly tried to follow. It was only a lifetime of genteel breeding that stopped him in his tracks. What right did he have to go there, to see her in such a state, to sit by her bed and hold her hand while she recovered from the chill that had set into her bones?

His feet scraped to a halt and the door to the room they’d taken her to closed behind them. He was alone. And it was then, and only then, that he let weariness wash over him. The exhaustion of his fear and concern for her caved his shoulders and stole the breath from his lungs in a great sigh.

Palmer emerged from the room a moment later and closed the door quietly behind him. He walked carefully to where he stood and after a moment’s consideration clapped him on the shoulder.

“The women will have her sorted shortly. She will be fine, thanks to you,” he said with a polite smile. “The youth these days are so head strong and adventurous it’s a damn miracle any of them survive to adulthood.” 

He nodded and offered a fleeting smile at the joke as his eyes lingered overlong on the door.

“Shall I pour you a brandy? I dare say you earned it after carrying her the five miles from that hilltop.”

He was not interested in brandy or polite conversation. His mind was wholly focused on how Marianne was faring just beyond that door and out of his line of sight. But his genteel breeding took over once more. 

“Yes, thank you. If you’ll excuse me, I should like to change into something a little dryer.”

“Of course,” Mr. Palmer responded genially. “I shall have a brandy waiting in the study when you return.”

He nodded his head in thanks and headed for the guest quarters.

His pace slowed as he passed the wall that ran adjacent to her room, his fingers slipping lightly across the glossy wood paneling. He heard no sounds from within, no hint of reassuring voices. It was too quiet for his liking, eerily so.

The silence haunted him with a sense of foreboding that dogged each step he took further from that spot. If propriety allowed it he would hold vigil outside her door, but there was naught else he could do except press onward. And so he did, with one reluctant step after another. He retreated quietly, his heart alone in its silent burden – the victim of an unrequited but inescapable love for Miss Marianne Dashwood. 


End file.
